John Whitehorse nodded. “They were close to Willie and they followed him too far. I am glad they did not die.”
“As for Willie,” continued Sam, watching the old man with eyes that had lately seen too much, “the story being passed around is that he’d doused his guitar with gasoline. Then he set it afire—as a gimmick, an audience-pleaser—but it spread to his clothes before he could get rid of it. I believe he would bum hot—he had enough alcohol in him—but that’s not what happened. There was no gas on that guitar, was there?”
John Whitehorse looked tired. “Nadonema, the wolf.”
Sam’s mouth tightened, but he looked satisfied. “Yeah, the wolf. Everybody thought it was done with trick lights, with mirrors. How was it done, old man?”
“From birth every Whitehorse is made brother to a creature of the forest. I am kin to the bear. To help make big medicine, he will make a picture of it in his mind and try to partake of its strength. It is a great power that takes much time and experience to learn
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WITH FRIENDS LIKE THESE …
well. Willie was very young and made his medicine too strong. Or perhaps, for some reason, he did not care.”
“And his music?” Sam asked quickly.
“No Whitehorse can make medicine without music, Sam Parker, nor music without some medicine.”
Then Collins was right, Sam thought. Music opens the blocks between minds. Pity the psychologist couldn’t be here. He was number eleven on the coroner’s list. But Sam was still skeptical.
“C’mon, old man. Next you’ll be telling me you can make it rain and cure warts.”